


Puzzle Pieces

by ronandhermy



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:25:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronandhermy/pseuds/ronandhermy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate AU: It's just a Mark, just a little discoloration on the skin, what could a little patch of skin do? Try, everything. Including, for a pair of South Side boys, the impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Markings

The mythos of the Soulmate Mark dated back thousands of years and spanned more cultures than could ever be known or explained. In some cultures it was seen as blessing, a marking of the gods that the person was destined for something important. In other societies it was viewed with great sorrow that a person had been marked without their consent and would have to bear the burden of what came with that mark. Others viewed it as a sign of mystical powers while others viewed it as a mark of shame, a deprivation of free will. 

It was a strange thing, Mickey couldn’t help but think as he’d rub his own mark absent mindedly, that such a little thing could cause so much fuss. The things about marks were that they never actually seemed to follow any rules. Some were faint, barely there, while others were like scars or burn marks, etched so deep into the skin it was like a marring of the flesh, whereas others had color. Marks could take any shape, could be on any spot of the body, could be an exact match or just complimentary. 

The only thing anyone could seem to agree on in regards to Marks was that they were private. 

Marks could say a lot about a person or absolutely nothing at all, depending on which crock of warmed up shit a person decided to listen to on any given day. Some people tried to draw a correlation of where a mark would show up on the body to some type of behavior or possible personality trait. Other talked about the faintness of a mark as a sign that the person was a new soul while a deeply etched mark was a sign of many reincarnations. But the thing was, no one actually knew.

The only thing people seemed to know was that sometimes a mark matched up with someone elses, it wasn’t rare but it wasn’t common, and when that happened shit tended to go down. It affected each pair differently, some becoming so dependent on the other that when one died the other quickly followed, or others would just form the type of friendship only heard about in the epic stories. Sometimes, although no one ever really talked about those times, sometimes nothing happened at all. Sometimes people were marked just because they were marked.

Mickey remembered a boy in his sixth grade class, Sahid, who was small, even smaller than Mickey, but he had a certain pose around him. An aura or grace some would call it. His mark had been on his face, not tucked away under his clothes like nearly everybody else, and it had been a large out sprawling of blossomed rose buds. It had been black with splotches of pink and lines of green, reaching onto his eyelid and attempting to get into his mouth and curling around his earlobe. His eyes, dark and bottomless, had challenged anyone who wanted to make a comment. Mickey hadn’t said anything, couldn’t, because to have such a mark was to be forced to be brave. A mark said a lot about a person, or that’s what so many mythos proclaimed, and what did it say about a boy with a big flower mark on his face? Nothing that would go over well on this side of town, that was for damn sure. 

There were people who didn’t have marks, unfortunates many would call them, wandering around like blank slates with no indication that they belonged anywhere. One of Mickey’s Uncles made a good amount of cash on the side giving those types of people marks. He’d perfected the art of staining the skin and fucking with the membrane until it almost seemed like it was a soulmate mark. To the untrained eye that is. But even the untrained would be able to tell once they touched it, because marks just felt different. There wasn’t a really a way to explain it, they were just different. 

Some people incorporated their marks into other tattoos or into piercings. Terry had a simple circle mark on his back that he’d made the foundation for the Aryan Nation Eagle while Angie Zago had gotten snakebite piercings around the simple star pattern on her wrist. To them the marks were just another ornamentation, something they could put on their skin and forget about. Not everyone had an attachment to their mark, in-fact very few people actually felt another connection to another person through their mark. Those were just stories boxed and sold on daytime television. Sometimes it happened. Sometimes. But not here. Not on the South Side.

Mickey’s mark was dark, the type of black that came from midnights mixed with ashes and pure brewed coffee, it sunk so deep into Mickey’s skin he was sure it reached bone, leaving a permanent stain beneath the skin. It wasn’t large, about the size of a fifty cent piece, and it rested right below the middle of his left collarbone. It was a cut half circle, at least that’s what Mickey thought it was, it was a series of circles and curls trapped in a curved lines that were sharply curtailed. Sometimes Mickey thought it looked like some of those ancient Mexican drawings or whatever that he’d seen in his history book back in fifth grade, other days the thought it looked like some fucked up half of a yin-yang symbol and other days he didn’t think it looked liked anything. 

He was thankful it was in a place that he could easily hide it, tucked out of sight and out of mind. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of it, far from it, but it felt like something that should be his and only his. He’d been protective of it ever since he was a kid when his brothers had held him down and threatened to burn it off with a cheap bic lighter. Mickey had screamed and clawed and bit his way out of their hold, more a vicious animal than a boy, and after that his brothers didn’t try to mess with his mark. It was his, after all, nobody elses. Not even his damn Soulmate if such a person actually existed. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Ian ideally scratched at his mark as he took what precious time he could in the shower, letting the hot water push the soap out of his hair and run in rivulets down his freckled back. He took a deep breath, and then another. It was probably nothing. Just because he hadn’t heard of this happening before didn’t mean it was something bad, it just was one of those things that probably wasn’t talked about. Privacy and all that, which seemed to becoming a vestigial organ of the past at the rate social media was heading. It was fine, he was fine.

He felt fine, he really did, but maybe he was just lying to himself. He picked at the skin around his mark as he turned off the water and ignored the pounding on the door from Lip. It had always been a commonplace thing, a sort of half circle that sat comfortably beneath his right collarbone, no real thrills or anything. Except lately, lately it’d been getting darker and part of the mark that hadn’t been visible before, parts that had been hidden under the skin, were starting to appear. Swirls and small circles, confined within the original boundaries of his mark, and it was jarring to see such new additions to his skin. 

His freckles crowded the mark, crawling around it and in it, and he sometimes thought about taking a knife and cutting the damn patch of skin out of his chest. It wasn’t like it meant anything, not really. It didn’t make him faster, stronger, it didn’t hold his family together, it didn’t put food on the table. It was just a stupid birthmark that people said supposedly linked up to cosmic destiny. 

Ian snorted. Fuck that, he’d make his own destiny. With or without a mark that decided puberty was a great time to make some changes. He really fucking hoped it meant nothing because if there was actually some truth to the stories and “a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend” runaround about eternal love and connections and all that, he was screwed. Grade A screwed. Because Ian had never been very good at protecting his heart and if he ever found someone with his---with their---mark, he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. 

Even he couldn't find fate on that deep a level.

But it was nothing. He was sure of it.


	2. Burning

He hadn’t meant to see it, really he didn’t, but sometimes a person just ends up looking even when they’re not supposed to. They had gym together, one of the few mixed classes and also one of those required classes that everyone, except for maybe the jocks, hated. It wasn’t so much the physical exertion as the extra dose of humiliation that just seemed to be par for the course, and the locker rooms were the worst. No one, except for a few of the cocky jocks, used the communal showers but the faint mist and mildew still seemed to cling to the old puke green lockers and cold metal benches. 

In the locker rooms everyone pretended they weren’t looking, weren’t trying to see what type of mark that other guy had, weren't comparing their own marks to others in some fucked up cosmic pissing contest. A big burly guy who had a small bird looking mark? Well, he doesn’t seem so tough now. The skinny little kid who doesn’t seem like much? The jagged looking marks on his back, almost like claw marks of an unnatural beast, would make anyone think twice about messing with him. A lot of guys changed in the stalls or perfected the art of changing their new clothes while their old clothes were still on. A mark was a personal thing after all. Some guys liked to show it off, make a statement that they weren’t their mark. Bullshit, they just knew how to bluff better than the other guys. But even if they were showing off it was still considered rude to look.

Which was what Ian ended up doing even though he really, really shouldn’t be doing it. Ian felt a little bit like a pervert as he watched Mickey tear off his undershirt that was soaked with sweat to put on his shirt. He just stood there, his shirt half-on as he watched the older boy get dressed. But it was too late. He’d seen it. That dark stain that begged to be touched, to be explored, to have it’s secrets told. As he’d said, complete and total pervert.

Then Mickey turned sharply and looked directly at Ian. His gaze was sharp and hard, answering some unissued challenge that Ian didn’t realize he was giving out. But Ian wasn’t looking at Mickey’s eyes, those pricks of glacial ice against a pale landscape of a face, but at the mark on Mickey’s chest. It seemed to burn itself into Ian’s vision, so that when he closed his eyes at night, that mark was all he would see. It was etching itself onto his brain, all those swirls and hidden circles, they were now as much apart of Ian as his own breath. And his own mark pulsed in some ancient reply.

“We got a problem Gallagher?” Mickey asked, his voice focusing Ian even more than he thought possible. He didn’t care that the tone was hostile he just wanted to hear that voice again and again. The air itself seemed cramped and he could feel his mark actually pulse. Like it was a living thing, or an extension of his heart. 

Ian forced himself to swallow and shook his head. “No problem,” he managed to get out in the steadiest voice he could, and he forced himself to look away, shove his shirt on. He hid his face in his locker as he pretended to be putting something away, and he tried to catch his breath.

What the fuck was that? That shouldn’t have happened. That was not normal.

Mickey was having similar problems because his mark literally burned. Burned as if someone had doused it in lighter fluid and casually put out their half-smoked cigarette on it. But it was worse then when his dad had mistaken him for an ashtray when he was five, because the burn sunk in deep and seemed to develop teeth gnawing at his flesh and muscle and bone. He tried to keep himself under control but it was a little fucking difficult when Ian Gallagher was staring at him with that 1,000 yard stare. 

He tried to keep his breathing normal but he was sweating and he prayed that no one else could tell just how fucking rattled he was. What the hell was happening? His mark had never done this before. Ever. Sometimes it was a little warmer than the rest of his body, sure, but that was usually when he was around Mandy or something. Good ol' Mandy with her too short skirts and multicolored hair and three jagged lines, like lighting marks, that dug into her left shoulder, extending from the top of her left breath, cresting her shoulder, and stopping halfway down her ribcage. Her mark was nearly as dark as Mickey's, that startling black against her pale skin, and it was beautiful in a fierce way that no one but a handful of people had ever seen. His mark never hurt like this around her and it shouldn’t fucking hurt like this at all. Especially not because some skinny red head was staring him down, half-looking for a fight. 

Mickey broke eye contact with Gallagher and shoved the rest of his clothes on, resisting the urge to hiss as his shirt rubbed against his mark. He could sense the red head shoving his clothes on as well but Mickey wasn’t going to sit around and wait. Shoving his black backpack on his shoulder he practically flew out of the locker room, down the hall past terrified students and frustrated educators, not stopping for anyone or anything until he was outside and under the bleachers. 

He threw his backpack down onto the frozen dirt and sat down on top of the beat up canvas bag. His pale tattooed fingers dug into his pockets before finding a spare cigarette and a cheap red bic lighter. It took him longer to light up then he would have liked, his fingers wouldn’t stop shaking causing him to nearly drop his lighter twice and his annoyance at his own inability to keep things under control certainly wasn’t helping any. The smoke filling his lungs and the tainting of his tongue was welcomed and familiar as he tried to focus on that rather than the ache that had settled into his chest. 

He quickly smoked one cigarette and quickly moved on to another, taking the second one slower. The metal bars and slats that criss-crossed in front of his eyes became briefly obscured by a plume of smoke before disappearing into the frigid Chicago air. Then it all disappeared as a gangly red head leaned over him and asked, “Got a light?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey mumbled around his cigarette, actively avoiding looking into Gallagher’s damn green eyes. 

But Gallagher didn’t move. He just stood there, his hands wrapped around one of the metal bars as he leaned forward, his blue coat far too big for him. A product of shopping at the Good Will and second hand stores, because Gallaghers actually seemed like the kind of people to buy shit instead of just stealing it. Finally, Mickey handed over his lighter, making sure he didn’t touch the younger boy.

Ian took the lighter with a nod of thanks and lit up his own cigarette and slid down to sit on the ground across from Mickey, leaning against a metal poll. His green curious eyes never left the brunette's hunched form as both boys slowly smoked their cigarettes. It seemed to be an unacknowledged truth that the moment they were finished with their smokes, that they would have to say something, anything, about what the hell was going on. 

It didn’t make sense, that much Ian was sure of, but he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to be around Mickey. He knew him, in the way that everyone in their neighborhood knew each other, but right now he felt that if he didn’t talk with Mickey today, right now, he might as well jump off Navy Pier. There were stories about marks calling to one another, ancient epics written in a tongue Ian would never learn to speak from a country that no longer existed, but he’d read a few of the translations for one of his English classes. They’d all spoken of a thread of fate that was continually being spun until it was deemed appropriate timing for the gods to tie the ends of the thread around the marks, as a way to draw the two individuals together. There was nothing in the words, the symbolism of millennium ago, that indicated that a mark would literally react to another person. Not like this anyway.

Mickey and Ian were both holding onto their smoldering butts but neither seemed inclined to say anything. Finally Mickey stubbed out the burning paper into the unyielding dirt and Ian took that as his cue to say something.

“It’s sort of a mess,” Ian blurted out, flicking his butt past Mickey’s ear. 

Mickey just rolled his eyes heavenward and replied, “No shit Sherlock.”

“Dick,” Ian half-muttered under his breath, but Mickey heard and hid his grin before the other boy could see it, before asking, “This ever happen to you before?”

Mickey just looked at Ian like he was an idiot. Well that answered that question.

“Me neither,” Ian admitted. He flexed his fingers, getting some blood flow going, as he continued to stare at Mickey who had settled for defiantly staring back. The words he wanted to ask the most were lodged in the back of his throat, waiting for him to spit them out. He wanted to see it again, examine the mark that had caused his own to react, wanted to touch it. Hell, maybe he just wanted to trace the lines with his tongue even if it would get him a mouthful of broken teeth courtesy of Mickey’s fist. 

Mickey let out a breath and said, “Look man, it’s probably nothing. Probably just some hormones or shit fucking up our systems. It doesn’t mean anything. All right? So let’s just keep our mouth shut and move on.”

The older boy got up and brushed his hands off on his dirty pants, before grabbing his backpack and preparing to head out. As he passed Ian, who still sat, his expression one of hidden contemplation, the red head spoke up, “I don’t think it’s nothing.”

“Whatever man,” Mickey said, shrugging his shoulders and he forced himself to walk away. He resisted the urge to run, like he was being chased by the big bad boogie man, or destiny, or fate or whatever the fuck was at play here. But worse than wanting to run away was wanting to go back and demand Ian show Mickey his mark. To touch and make sure it was supposed to be there and not just some prank or horrible cosmic joke. Maybe it was a universal joke and the punchline was Mickey. It wouldn't be the first time.

Mickey ran his hand through his air and tried to shake off whatever odd feelings seemed to be lingering around him. He was a Milkovich, he could handle this. It was just a stupid patch of skin on some freckled chest after all. It didn’t mean anything. Mickey swallowed, at least he hopped it didn’t mean anything or else he was in some deep shit with no way out. 

It might have been some comfort to Mickey to know that Ian was thinking the same thing as he continued to sit under the bleachers, looking at the way the dim sunlight bounced off the cheap metal. He didn’t know what it meant, everything that he was feeling, both physically and emotionally, but he needed to figure it out just a little bit. Just enough so that he could make sense of it and handle it. Because right now, with the throbbing of his mark and the odd sense of loss now that Mickey wasn’t around, he felt out of control. And if there was one thing in the whole world that Ian Gallagher hated more than anything, it was losing control. 

The redhead continued to look up at the metal bars and dimly lit sky, absentmindedly rubbing at his mark beneath his shirt, and thought of his next move.


	3. Collision

Mickey didn’t want to see the red head again, he really fucking didn’t, he didn’t want it at all. He didn’t want to see those freckles and those eyes looking at him like he had the answers to all the questions in the universe. He didn’t want to know what that mark was underneath his hand-me-down shirt. He didn’t want any of it. He needed it.

He needed it so much he lay awake at night picturing stupid Ian Gallagher with his stupid puppy dog face and needing to tug off that stupid shirt to see that boy’s mark. He needed it down to the core of his being and he had no idea why. There were things inside of him, secret parts that he didn’t even know existed until a few days ago, that he didn’t understand. It was an ache in his gut, a bleeding hole in his heart, and a throbbing burn from his mark. 

He’d tried to fight it, tried to forget the feelings he never should have felt in the first place. He took to beating up every red head he could find, giving a swirly to a skinny senior who had two parallel lines on his left forearm for his mark, stuffing a freshmen with more acne than freckles into his locker, his mark had been a nasty looking burn mark of a splotch on his neck, and beating a junior with hippie hair to the ground just to see that his mark was nothing but a pair of interlocked circles on his hip. Mickey was furious and lashing out although he didn’t know why he was angry or who he should even be lashing out at. So he was like a wild animal trapped in a cage, fighting against any and all comers. 

Ian wasn’t fairing much better than Mickey. He lay in bed at night, staring at the poster covered ceiling and found going to sleep to be an impossible mission. He’d tried to distract himself by pushing himself beyond his limits, being extra diligent with his homework, doing extra physical training, picking up extra shifts at work. Kash had tried to start something, pick up where they'd left off, but the thought of even touching the older man made him want to vomit. He didn’t want Kash. Never really had, but now that something was happening with his mark and with Mickey he most definitely did not want to anywhere physically near the older man. His faint mark of three short lines, in sequential acute angles, right over his belly button had always bothered Ian in some vague way anyway, so distancing himself wasn’t that big of a hardship. 

Nothing really helped though. 

He still felt that tug, that damned need or want or whatever it was, deep down in his being. Why was this happening? He didn’t want a fairytale story, or some tragic unrequited love, or some terrible fate written tale that would wined up resulting in death and despair. He would have settled for an actual loving relationship, he didn’t need this crappy soulmark stuff. Lip always said it was a vestigial evolutionary by-product that resulted as a way to keep track of one’s tribe and identify outsiders, also possibly as a way to identify a body. It had always made so much clinical sense when Lip had explained it that way. Lip didn’t care about the thin quarter sized triangle on his chest, and he’d always scoffed with skepticism at those soppy romance stories Debbie seemed to like. 

Now though, now Ian had no clue what to believe. He had no one to talk to, no one to explain what the hell was going on, and none of the books he’d looked at seemed to give an explanation. The thing about books written about marks was that there was next to no scientific explanations or reasoning, it was almost all steeped in legends or myths or cultural traditions and superstitions. One of the books he’d looked at stated that reactions that created physical responses in marks were rare and signaled that death was imminent. Another spoke of close family connections being a possibility for latent reactions. Still others said that it meant a transformation was going to occur. 

None of the books at been helpful and Ian had been tempted to set them all on fire for being so incredibly useless. Instead he found himself smoking a cigarette in an alleyway trying to figure out a plan. Every scenario he ran led to one conclusion: he need to talk with Mickey. Maybe if they just sat down and talked about whatever this thing was, they could sort it out. Fix it or feel it out or whatever. Just do something so that Ian didn’t feel like part of himself was trying to claw it’s way out of his body and seek out something Ian wasn’t sure he wanted to confront. 

Ironically, it was Mickey who found Ian first. 

The redhead at been hanging out under the bleachers, trying to figure out a way to corner Mickey and bring up the whole topic of marks without having the entire Milkovich family descending on him like a bandit of demons. He hadn’t been getting very far in his thoughts, he’d mostly gotten as far as grabbing Mickey, pulling him into a janitor’s closet and attempting to get out an explanation before Mickey thought it’d be a good idea to deck him. To be fair, Ian kinda wanted to deck himself for the way he was acting. In the midst of all the self-doubt and terrible planning a body plopped down next to him.

“Got a light?” a familiar voice asked and Ian nearly jerked out of his skin as he turned to face Mickey who sat with an unlit cigarette dangling in between his fingers.

It took Ian a minute to get over his shock, Mickey just looking at him expectantly, an eyebrow raised. Finally, Ian managed to shake himself and grab the crappy lighter he’d snagged from Lip earlier this morning. When he’d said he was going to skip class to think Lip had handed the lighter over without question. Now he was trying to keep his hands steady as Mickey took in that first igniting breath, he needn’t have worried about Mickey noticing his hands shaking, the older boy was trying to keep his own hands steady.

Once Mickey cigarette was lit and the first breath of smoke was escaping into the dreary landscape, he said with a strange collected resignation, “Think we got a problem Gallagher.”

Ian shrugged. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Mickey grinned at Ian, quick, just a quirk of his lips, before his expression became serious once more. “So,” Mickey said, “what are we gonna do?” 

Ian took another drag of his own cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs and stall for time. What he wanted to do was tear off Mickey’s shirt and try to decipher the mystery of his mark. What they were going to to do was an entirely different matter. 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ian asked, holding his breath as he looked at Mickey. He could see the older boy debating with himself, trying to decide if it was worth it to try and figure out what was going on.

“Yeah,” Mickey finally said, nodding his head, “You know a place we can go?” It seemed to be understood that they would be looking at each other’s marks now and they needed some place more private than the underbelly of the football bleachers. 

“My house should be free,” Ian found himself saying, “Fiona picked up an extra shift at the Motel 8 cleaning rooms so she shouldn’t be back till 5 and the rest of my siblings won’t be home until after school gets out.” It went unsaid that Frank would be at the bar and that Monica was long gone.

Mickey nodded and threw away his cigarette, flicking it past Ian’s head, before getting up and asking, “You coming or what?”

The red head scrambled to his feet and just like that both boys were off. Neither of them really said anything as they made their way back to the Gallagher house but it wasn’t an awkward silence if that could be believed. It was almost like they were in a suspended space and they were simply two electrons moving around a common nucleus. Someday, maybe, they would collide but for right now they were just existing in perfect concert. 

When they got to the house they locked the door behind them before making their way to Ian’s room where they, again, locked the door. It was an unspoken agreement that they didn’t want to be interrupted. This was private. The most private thing either of them could think of.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Mickey half-taunted, but there was a underlying nervousness in his words so Ian forgave any callousness that may have dripped into his tone. Ian nodded and Mickey gnawed at his bottom lip for a moment before dropping his coat and pulling his shirt and sweater over his head and letting them join the coat on the floor. 

Ian’s eyes instantly fell onto that mark, that mark that had haunted his every waking moment since he’d seen it, and now filled his vision. He didn’t even realizing he’d been moving to touch it until he felt Mickey’s hand resting on his chest, halting him. 

“Hey,” Mickey said, drawing Ian’s gaze back to those blue eyes. The older boy’s words were said gently, and quietly, almost as if he didn’t even want the corners of the room to hear them. “We had a deal. Mine for yours.”

Ian nodded and took a half-step back to throw off his own coat and tear off his own shirt. He could feel Mickey’s gaze drop to stare at his freckled chest and that black mark that was now impossibly dark, nearly as dark as Mickey’s, but he could also see Mickey hesitating, unsure of what they were supposed to do now but not wanting to betray his ignorance.

“You can touch it,” Ian spoke up, soft, and wanting Mickey’s touch now more than anything _yes please touch me touch me touch me_ , “If you want.”

Mickey swallowed and took a step closer and reached out. He stopped right before his fingers hit flesh to look into Ian’s eyes and say, “I’m not scared.”

“I know,” Ian breathed, his eyes never leaving Mickey’s.

Then Mickey was touching him and Ian tried to resist the urge to shudder and groan as he closed his eyes. It felt like coming home. Like a part of himself that he didn’t even realize was out of step was now locked firmly in place. He leaned into the touch, as Mickey’s fingers explored the various swirls and circles confined in that broken half circle. And then Ian was touching Mickey’s mark, trying to memorize it with touch, as if his fingers would transcribe the secrets of Mickey into his own flesh. 

Then the touches became rougher and it became some type of strange fighting. Mickey gripped Ian’s forearm tight, hard enough to bruise, and Ian’s fingernails dug into Mickey’s chest causing small drops of blood to escape onto that pale chest. And then they were fighting, but it was unlike any fighting that either boy had ever done. The goal was not to get away. The goal was to touch and explore and win. Win what? Well that seemed to be the real question that neither boy had the answer to.

Mickey had Ian pinned on the red head’s bed, one hand around the pale freckled throat, feeling that wild pulse, while the other dug into that mark. That damn mark that was nearly a perfect match for his only in reverse. He knew that if they were to press their chests together it would almost be like their marks would become one. Just the thought of that, the thought of such complete belonging, sent all the blood out of Mickey’s brain and into his other head. 

He fully expected Ian to react with revulsion but instead the redhead was looking at Mickey like he was Christmas morning come early, an X-rated Christmas. No words were exchanged but there was a shift, the air became heavy with want and desire, and then they were moving to rip each other’s pants off. They were naked in record speed and Ian was spitting onto two of his fingers and shoving them up Mickey’s ass. Mickey groaned and reached down to rub his dick against Ian’s growing member. The ginger kid sure was packing and Mickey was practically drooling as he looked down at their dicks pressed against one other. 

Mickey swallowed and managed to get out, his voice husky with desire, “Get on me.”

Ian didn’t need to be told twice as he spread Mickey’s leg’s around his waist and pressed his dick against Mickey’s asshole. He slipped in an inch, not even hiding his groan of pure pleasure, as he looked up into Mickey’s eyes. Mickey was panting and then he bit his lip and slammed down on Ian’s shaft, until he was completely inside. Ian couldn’t even bite back his whimper as he tried to maintain his composure and not come like a fire-hose within three seconds of having sex. He wasn’t some eighth grader jacking off to Muscles magazine, he was in someone who he wanted to keep coming back for sex. He wanted him to come back so much he’d never leave. 

Mickey rode Ian but Ian was no passive partner. They both slammed into each other, determined to collide in such a way that their bodies would never be the same. Ian gripped Mickey’s hip in one hand, reaching down to cup that beautiful ass, and his other hand slid up Mickey’s neck and gripped his dark hair in a tight fist. His mouth was on Mickey’s shoulder, attempting to brand the pale flesh with a bruise that would last for weeks and weeks so that Mickey couldn’t deny, not even to himself, that this was happening. 

Mickey pressed his chest as close as possible to Ian’s and it was like coming home. His mark and Ian’s mark were matched up perfectly and having them touch was making Mickey feel things that had nothing to do with the fact that he was receiving one of the best poundings of his life. Ian was like a fucking animal and Mickey grinned before biting Ian’s neck. It was good to know the golden ginger boy was on his level when it came to sex. He pressed as close as he could, attempting to climb into Ian’s freckled chest. He groaned as his mark pushed into Ian’s with every thrust of that ginger’s giant dick. If he didn’t think it would ruin any credibility he had he would probably cry at how good it felt.

Ian could feel a tear escaping his eye but he just rubbed it against Mickey’s shoulder, letting it blend in with the sweat both of them had worked up. He couldn’t take it. Nothing had ever felt this good, this comforting, this complete. It was more than the sex, although that certainly wasn’t hurting any, it was his mark and Mickey’s mark making some type of cosmic connection. He didn’t care how cliche it was, he’d never felt like this with anyone else. It was a complete and utter sense of belonging without any of the doubt that usually accompanied such a feeling. He clutched Mickey tighter. He was never going to let this, him, whatever this was, go. Never.

They both picked up the pace, now in some twisted race to a finish line they both wanted to cross together. Mickey reached it first. He came shuddering in Ian’s arms, his mouth wide open and his legs wrapped around the lean redhead. Ian wasn’t far behind as he bit into Mickey’s shoulder and came inside of the older boy, holding him close and making sure he couldn’t get away. Not that Mickey was trying to get away as he leaned into Ian and panted. Ian stopped biting the pale shoulder that was now beginning to bruise and licked at the teeth marks in apology. He hadn’t meant to bite that hard. 

“Damn Gallagher,” Mickey breathed, satisfaction in every word and in every bone of his body, “You fuck like a champ.”

Ian gave a small shaky laugh that almost turned to a pained whimper as Mickey got off of him, causing Ian to lose contact with the one person he wanted to touch until the end of time. When he saw Mickey pulling on his boxers he began to panic and asked, “Where’re you going?’

Mickey looked at him like he was an idiot. “The bathroom. Unless you want the cum that’s about to leak out of my ass to be all over your army big boy sheets?”

Ian shook his head and Mickey snorted as he unlocked the door, “Thought not.” 

Mickey took his time in the bathroom, trying to collect himself, but it wasn’t really going that well. It was if everything had been shifted just slightly, just an inch out of place, except it was because everything had been in the wrong place to begin with and the shifting had corrected it. Mickey wasn’t even aware that things needed to be corrected. Now though, now he was even more confused then he was yesterday.

Ian reluctantly put on his boxers and then his pants, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled up the zipper but left the button undone. He sat on his bed, his eyes focused on the place that Mickey had been just a few minutes before. Breathing was both harder and easier all of a sudden, like his vision had been imperfect before but now he was seeing 20/20. And it was all due to Mickey. All due to whatever it was that was going on with them. Which he still had no idea what it all was.

Mickey came back and put on his pants and grabbed his shirt but he didn’t put it on, he just held it in his hands. He looked at Ian, drank in his freckles and green eyes and red hair and bruises mark, and wondered what he was supposed to do. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

Ian stared at Mickey, at the marks surrounding that dark half circle that spoke of someone trying to grab it and possibly tear it out. He hadn’t meant to do that much damage but Mickey didn’t seem to mind it, just rubbed his mark in an absent way as he looked at Ian. Both seemed to be waiting for the other person to say something.

“So,” Ian began, and took another breath, “I usually work at the store by myself on Wednesdays and Fridays, and sometimes Saturdays. You know, if you wanted to stop by.” 

Mickey swallowed and gave a small nod but seemed utterly lost at how to proceed. Ian wasn’t fairing much better. They were spared from spilling their guts by the sounds of Carl and Debbie coming into the house. Without a word both of the boys had their shirts on and did a quick once over to make sure nothing was too out of place, except possibly their whole world view.

Ian got up and moved to hold the door open for Mickey. But before the older boy could leave Ian grabbed Mickey’s arm and stepped closer.

“I’ll see you later. Right?” Ian asked, low and intense. 

“Yeah,” Mickey replied, staring directly into Ian’s eyes, “Yeah, man.”

Ian leaned in as if to kiss Mickey but the older boy pulled away with a small scowl and said, “You kiss me and I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.” He left after that but Ian just rolled his eyes at Mickey’s retreating back. That was an idle threat if ever he’d heard one, but he’d let Mickey have his way on this one. At least for now.

And as the two boys went their separate ways they both felt a special kind of ache within their chests and upon their marks.


	4. Touching

Fucking Ian Gallagher was probably the worse decision Mickey had ever made in his entire life, he reflected. Not because the kid was a bad lay, on the contrary the kid had a dick that just wouldn’t quite. Or a blabber mouth, Ian knew to keep his mouth shut or they’d both end up dead in a ditch somewhere soul mark or no soul mark. It was because now that Mickey had gotten a taste, he wanted it all the fucking time.

It was exhausting keeping himself away from that ginger shit. Every part of him seem to crave Gallagher’s touch and presence and voice. He’d only gotten a taste and already he was acting like a veteran addict jonesing for a fix. He wanted to get the kid out of his system, he really did. Except every time he ever even half-seriously entertained the thought he felt like he was dying. Like he was suffocating and rotting from his mark outward. 

It left him with the only real option: he had to see Ian Gallagher again.

Ian was at the counter of the Kash-n-Grab, biting one of his fingernails again as he tried, and failed, not to think about Mickey Milkovich. What they’d done. What his mark had meant. What his mark had felt like underneath Ian’s fingers. How it seemed to almost call Ian home. 

Fuck.

Ian tore another small piece of skin off, causing a small amount of blood to well up and coagulate. Half his nails were stained with blood because he’d been chewing on them absent mindedly in his stress induced think vortex. He didn’t know what was happening, what had happened, he just knew that he needed it to happen again.

He hadn’t been expecting Mickey to walk into the store, his green scarf wrapped around his neck and a bounce in his swagger that was clearly a product of nerves. But he looked far too at ease for everything that had happened and Ian wanted to hit him on principle. And then maybe kiss him. And then figure out what the hell was going on, because he sure as hell didn’t have a clue and Mickey looked far too calm for the collective fuck up that was their lives.

Ian stopped biting his nail, swallowed back the taste of blood that lingered on his tongue and asked the question with his eyes that he couldn’t with his mouth.

“You got a break?” Mickey asked, leaning slightly on the counter, his arms splayed wide as if he could make himself seem larger that way. It was a subconscious habit, picked up from being the runt of the litter and having to make sure people knew they couldn’t fuck with him. He knew it was supposed to be intimidating, Ian really did, but all he could see was one of those stray kittens Debbie had tried to keep, puffing up against a threat. It made him want to pet Mickey, and not just in the heavy petting way.

“Kash,” Ian yelled, his eyes never leaving Mickey’s, “Taking my break.” 

He grabbed his coat and headed out to the back alley, already knowing that Mickey would follow him. Still, it didn’t stop him from smiling as he heard the older boy’s footsteps behind him. For some reason just having Mickey around seemed to calm him down. He didn’t understand it, wasn’t sure if he ever would, but it was a nice feeling all the same.

Mickey lit up a cigarette as they leaned up against the cold brick wall behind the dumpster. Ian held out his own cigarette and Mickey lit it for him without a word. They both smoked in silence for a few minutes and then Ian decided to address the elephant in the room.

“You know what this is?” Ian asked, not looking at Mickey but at the frozen ground.

“This,” Mickey said, smoke floating out of his mouth, “this is us smoking.” He flicked some ash off the end of his cigarette. 

“Don’t be a dick,” Ian half-laughed, half-groaned. He didn’t know why he found it so easy to talk to Mickey, maybe having had his dick up his ass was a cure all for social anxiety. “This thing with the marks. It’s not normal.”

“Nothing’s normal in this neighborhood,” Mickey replied, fiddling with the ends of his scarf, picking at a hole near the end of one side. He sighed and then said, “But yeah, we’re a bit more fucked than most.” 

“Do you know what this is?” Ian asked, half-demanding, half-pleading, unsure of everything. If Mickey knew, well if Mickey knew and hadn’t told him, he might just have to punch him on pure principle. It wasn’t fair if one person held all the answers to something this personal and didn’t share. It felt too much like he was eight years old again and Lip wasn’t telling him that the reason Monica acted so happy one day and then couldn’t get out of bed the next was because she was bipolar. He didn’t like being kept in the dark, not about the important shit.

“Do I fucking look like a mark expert?” Mickey huffed, taking an impatient drag of his smoke, “Thought you might know.”

“No clue. I mean, I did some reading, when my mark starting acting like more than, than what it was,” Ian began, his fingers twitching all of the ash off his butt. He struggled a bit with the words, trying to compress the universe into bite-sized chunks of digestible information, “But there’s nothing solid to go off of. It’s all these myths and legends that don’t make sense or contradict each other or are clearly made up by guys who got their rocks off torturing people. This one creepy fucker back in the Middle Ages apparently used to cut the marks off of his enemies in order to capture and corrupt their souls.”

“Wait, seriously?” Mickey asked, perking up as he looked at Ian.

“About how there is nothing to go off of or the mutilating monarch? Because the answer is yes to both of them,” Ian replied, rolling his eyes. His tried to ignore the pleasant warmth that seemed to originating from his mark. It sorta felt like someone resting a comforting hand on his shoulder and it calmed him down. 

Mickey rolled his eyes in response and rolled his shoulders as if he could roll whatever this was off his back, “So what do you want to do? Cry like a baby over it? Cause that’s not really my style.”

“Ass,” Ian said with a small grin, “I don’t know. Maybe just wait and see what happens.”

“Don’t poke the sleeping junk-yard dog?” Mickey mused, throwing his cigarette away, “Yeah, I can do that.” 

They stood in silence, Ian finishing up his cigarette even though he would have just liked to throw it away, but it gave his mouth something to do besides spouting out stupid theories like some mark conspiracy theorist. He’d seen those fuckers on daytime TV and he didn’t ever want to be that crazy about a stupid discoloration on the skin. Except he felt that crazy. He had a million and one theories buzzing around in his head at the moment and each one seemed crazier than the last. So instead of blurting out “maybe you and I are one soul in two bodies” at Mickey, he kept his mouth shut. 

“So what now?” Ian finally asked, crunching his spent cigarette under his boot. His red hair fell in front of his face and he was actually pouting a little bit, like he was a child. But maybe he had a right to pout, no one seemed to have any answers and it just wasn’t fair. 

Ian looked so much like a god damn kicked puppy at that moment that Mickey reached out, his hand landing directly over Ian’s mark. It didn’t matter that there were layers and layers of clothes separating their actual flesh, the contact was there. Heat seemed to tether the two of them together as Ian looked up at Mickey who was gently rubbing his thumb over Ian’s mark. No one had ever touched him like that, not there anyway. 

Mickey looked around, checked to see that they were alone, and that the large green trash bin kept them hidden from any prying eyes. It was cold and the garbage faintly smelled but all he could focus on was Ian. And in seemed Ian was in the same boat as him. 

Then Mickey grinned, his hand dropping to grope Ian’s crotch, causing Ian to lean forward and grip Mickey’s jacket. The older boy worked off his glove and then stuck his hand down Ian’s pants, frantically fumbling over Ian’s dick, his pale tattooed hand moving over Ian’s heated flesh at a rapid pace. He couldn’t help grinning as the younger boy turned into a mess of suppressed whimpers and shaking legs.

Ian was fighting tooth and nail not to cum in his pants but he had a feeling that he was going to make a mess no matter what. Mickey was just too damn good at what he was doing, his fingers alternating between dancing on his dick and gripping him with purpose. He just wanted to moan, rub himself up against Mickey like a cat, and just cum all over himself again and again if he would make him happy. He wasn’t going to last long.

But then he got a brilliant idea. Truly, it was amazing that he could still think at this point with all of his blood being used elsewhere. He shoved one of his hands down Mickey’s pants and watched the older boy choke and moan as he felt Ian’s cold hand working him over. Now it was a competition between the boys to see who could get each other off first without being caught. 

Neither of them lasted long and they both ended up with embarrassing messes in the front of their pants, but neither of them seemed to really care. Ian wore an apron at work and as he watched Mickey remove his hand from his pants and suck Ian’s cum from his pale fingers --slowly, savoring ever lick, like he was drinking something life sustaining-- he couldn’t regret anything. Hell, with Mickey looking at him like that from hooded eyes he may just come again. 

Mickey was far too pleased with himself to give a shit about another stain on his pants. He was a Milkovich, no one expected him to be clean. Plus, Ian was giving him that hopeful pleased puppy dog look like he was just waiting to wag his tail and get a belly rub. Mickey smirked and just ruffled Ian’s hair, wiping off the last of the cum on his hand into the ginger’s hair. He laughed a little bit but Ian just grinned at him with that damn dopey expression, not even realizing what Mickey had done.

“See you around?” Ian asked, hope naked in his eyes and Mickey wished he could take him home and make this kid as naked as his expression. 

Instead Mickey just grinned, a real genuine grin that made him look like the teenager he really was, and simply said, “Yeah man. Course.” 

Ian grinned like he’d won the lottery, and Mickey messed up Ian’s hair a little bit more because the kid was such a dork. Then again, Mickey let said dork into his ass so what did that say about his taste? Thinking back on the sex Mickey concluded that he had fan-fucking-tastic taste thank-you very much.

Neither boy remarked on the gentle warm pulse that seemed to hum from their marks, choosing instead to let it be. After all, that was their agreement: not to fuck with what they didn’t understand and enjoy the good times while it lasted. And they did have such a good time with each other.

Mickey ran his hands through Ian’s hair one last time, enjoying the softness of the hair that contrasted with it’s bright burning color, before stepping back. 

“Break’s over,” he said, smug and happy and more than willing to tease.

Ian just laughed.


	5. Settling

Something seemed to settle in Ian after his talk with Mickey in the alley. He hadn’t expected it to feel easier, to feel like he could actually breath, but for some reason he did. It didn’t stop him from wanting to be around Mickey, or wanting to touch him, but now at least he didn’t feel like he needed to rip off his skin to keep from doing so. In-fact, he and Mickey were almost like friends. Friends who sucked each others dicks but still.

Mickey didn’t seem to mind hanging out with him now and everyone just seemed to assume that Ian and Mickey had beaten the shit out of each other and then bonded over it. It almost surprised Ian how easily they fell into a pattern, as if they had just been waiting for the go ahead from the universe to hang out. Of course they fucked, but it was so much more than that. They actually talked, really talked. It started off as stupid shit after the initial deep crap about what their marks might mean, things like who was the best of the X-Men, which lead to an ongoing debate over which mutants a person would want of their strike team. But they also talked about things that other people didn’t seem to have time to listen to. Like the fact that to Ian the ROTC thing wasn’t just a phase, and that Mickey actually liked numbers because they were easy and made sense. Things that other people might have been vaguely aware of by ignored because if no one was dying or running from the cops they had other things to worry about. 

Mickey was always careful, careful not to get to close. Or at least he thought he was being careful, making sure they didn’t get caught with the physical stuff, making sure they didn’t get caught up in the emotional shit. But he didn’t seem to realize that he was rapidly heading into best friend territory with the way things were going. He just wanted to be around the kid. It wasn’t a crime.

Ian just drank in the attention from Mickey like parched earth during a rainstorm, feeling drunk at Mickey’s mere presence sometimes. Like any one of the neglected children running around their neighborhood Ian was starved for attention and Mickey gave it willingly, just as Ian gave all of his attention and appreciation to Mickey. They didn’t seem to realize what they were doing, binding themselves closer together through their shared time and interest, but it was happening nonetheless.

Once, when the Milkovich house was empty --Terry in jail and the rest of the siblings scattered to the four delinquent winds--Ian and Mickey had taken their sweet time with exploring each other. Mickey had finally gotten some time to explore and touch and taste Ian’s mark at his own pace. It was an extremely intimate act, letting another person touch another’s mark, a sign of trust and belonging. In some cultures only the spouse or immediate family members were allowed to touch the marks. If anyone else were to do so it was a sign of disgrace that would either result in a humiliating purification ritual or possibly, in extreme cases, death.

But neither Ian or Mickey knew about that, Ian didn’t know much of anything as all coherent thought disappeared when Mickey began to explore his mark. Pale inked fingers drifted over the dark flesh, lips touched and a talented tongue traced the swirls and circles captured in the jagged half-circle. The world narrowed and shrank until all he could see, could feel, could ever imagine, was Mickey. 

He knew he’d feel embarrassed when a few minutes later, with only Mickey’s mouth on his mark, he came without being touched. But it felt so good, so consuming, so total. It was one of the best orgasms of his life so far, and he kept one of his hands gripping Mickey’s dark hair while the other was splayed possessively across Mickey’s pale back. In moments like these, when it was just him and Mickey and their marks, he could very well believe in such things as heaven and soulbonds. 

Mickey had snickered, feeling Ian’s cooling cum on his thigh, and had looked and Ian with that playful look in his eye and said, “Not gonna leave me hangin’ are you?” With that damn challenging tone that could pretty much get Ian do anything before Ian even half-thought it through. Then he added, “Quick shooter,” with that stupid smirk and Ian flipped Mickey onto his back and swallowed the older boy’s dick so fast the grin transformed into a mutated groan.

Ian took his time with Mickey, putting his mouth to use in such a way that Mickey was literally a gibbering mess. Usually Mickey was pretty quiet in bed, more out of necessity than anything else, but having Ian’s pretty little mouth on his cock seem to make Mickey’s mouth start spouting off all types of things. Something about seeing the goody-two-shoes Gallagher with a heart of gold gagging for his cock got Mickey into the talking mood.

“Yeah, you like that don’t you?” Mickey was saying, his hands fisted into Ian’s hair, “Like my cock? Want to take it all like the good cocksucker that you are? The best. Damn, “ he broke off with a gasp as Ian reached up and touch Mickey’s mark. It caused Mickey to shudder but he held off coming for a few minutes longer.

“You’re so good, so good,” Mickey was murmuring frantically, his words coming out like prayers uttered to a personal god, “So good. Don’t stop, so good, so good.”

When Mickey came he thought he saw stars and one of his hands ended up clutching Ian’s, pushing it closer to his mark. He couldn’t think, wasn’t really coherent as Ian’s mouth moved lower and began to give him a rim job causing Mickey to moan like a cat in heat. How did he become so tied up in this? He couldn’t help but think. How did he become so addicted to Ian’s touch? But thoughts became irrelevant as Ian moved back up Mickey’s body and nudged his hard cock into Mickey’s ass.

It wasn’t a hard and rough fuck like they’d been having, that they both enjoyed, but slow and steady. Mickey didn’t even realize he was whimpering until he caught himself clinging to Ian like the ginger was the only piece of driftwood in the ocean, his legs locked around Ian’s waist dragging the younger boy closer. He couldn’t stop though. It felt too good, wrapped up in each other, their marks matching up and seeming to connect and create a complete whole circle. Like they had finally found the piece of their marks that had been missing.

Ian tried not to cry at how good Mickey felt, as he shifted his hips to drive in deeper, muffling his groan into Mickey’s neck when their marks touched. He bit down on Mickey’s shoulder again, renewing a bruises that had been there for weeks. Every time it started to fade Ian found himself biting it again, almost like he was marking Mickey. Some of the guys in the locker room had ribbed Mickey for the hickey, asking about his new piece of ass, and Mickey had just laughed and said, “Fucking redheads, always got to have something in their mouth or else they scream loud enough to get the cops called.” And everyone had laughed and agreed that red headed bitches were extra thirsty for the D and tried to one up each other while Ian had tried to keep his blush under control. 

When they were finished Ian just lay on top of Mickey, it felt too good to move on his own, their marks touching each other, so Ian waited for the older boy to push him off. But he didn’t. Instead, Mickey kept his arms wrapped around Ian, his face buried into Ian’s neck, and just accepted Ian’s weight on top of him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this is where they were supposed to be all along. That the world could end right at that moment and it’d be all right because this was exactly where they were supposed to be. And all those pieces, all those messed up messy parts of who they were, just seemed to lock into place.

Like Ian had said, settling.


	6. Trusting

Ian wanted to vomit. 

Debbie’s words kept crashing into his ears and he wished he hadn’t heard anything. Wished he was deaf as Old Man Thompson down the road. The old Korean War vet who had an X mark on his inner left wrist, a tattoo of his dead buddy’s bull mark on his right bicep, and next to no hearing due to the shelling of a persistent battalion of North Koreans. He didn’t have to hear things like _Mom’s back, Mom’s back, Monica’s back. But not for you. It's never for you._

Everything had been going so well, he had a job, was doing decent in school, ROTC was great and he had Mickey. So of course, of fucking course, things would have to be disrupted and ruined because of course they were too good. "Too good to be true" might as well be the slogan for this damn neighborhood. 

He took off. Fuck having to be at work. He’d covered for Kash hundreds of times, he owed him one. He’d have Fiona call later and say he was sick. Or he’d get Lip to do it, it didn’t matter, he couldn’t go in. And he was ill, just not in the way that people normally thought. He was heart sick. 

He didn’t even really realize where he was running until he wound up on the front porch of the Milkovich house. He could hear yelling and the TV blaring but that didn’t stop him from knocking on the door, frantic jabs that sent vibrations through the slowly warping wood. There was a tug in his gut, a feeling that said this was where he was supposed to be. Just here. Just now.

When Mickey opened up the door Ian had to fight everything within him so he didn’t burst into tears. Just seeing the other boy, his dark hair slightly ruffled, his brown sweater hanging on his shoulders, was so comforting, that familiar feeling of a gentle hand on his mark, cracked at Ian’s resolve. 

“It’s not a good time,” Mickey cautioned, blocking Ian from view.

“I need to see you,” Ian blurted out, his voice breaking and far more vulnerable than he’d ever been with anyone, “I don’t know where else to go.” 

Mickey just stared at this boy, this brave boy whose heart was bleeding and being held out to Mickey like some form of offering. An offering for the gods of old who demanded nothing less than everything. And how could he, mere mortal that he was, refuse such an offering? He wanted to reach out, run his hand through Ian’s hair and down his jaw, and tell him he didn’t have anything to fear. Except that was a lie. The looming presence of his father’s anger was more than enough proof that there were things to fear in this world. 

“Thought you had work,” Mickey said instead, scratching his nose briefly as he kept his eyes trained on Ian. If Ian broke, here and now, than Mickey would catch him and damn the consequences. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. 

“Skipping,” Ian said, waving his hand slightly as if he could brush off the deed, “Linda’ll probably have my ass but Monica’s back. I need to see you. Please.”

And Ian was so desperate, so open in his need, his need for _Mickey_ of all the people in the world, that Mickey felt any resistance he might have had fade and vanish like smoke in the wind. 

“I’ll meet you at the dugout in 20,” Mickey said, his eyes holding Ian's, praying the younger boy could understand what he was trying to say without words, before sliding back into the house once he saw Ian nod.

It was the longest twenty minutes of Ian's life, as he paced in the dugout, shaking from nerves but blaming it on the cold. He kept running through scenarios, kept thinking about things that should be kept buried, kept feeling his anxiety rise and rise until he was fighting to breath. He refused to cry. Ian Gallagher wasn’t going to cry just because his mommy decided to show back up after disappearing for months and months without a word. Never mind the slight pain in his mark that always seemed to occur whenever Monica made a sudden appearance or disappearance. All of the Gallagher kids had the same issue with their marks and their parents, although it was in different degrees and depended on the parent for all of them. Ian had never felt that hurt with Frank. 

He thought he could keep it together, thought he had it under control, but when Mickey rushed into the covered shelter, like a hero out of the tales of old, Ian felt all semblance of control break and evaporate. He didn’t care if it made him weak, he needed Mickey. Within moments of Mickey entering the dugout, his expression anxious and torn as he looked at Ian, the red head threw himself at Mickey’s chest. The older boy’s arms moved involuntarily, wrapping themselves around the trembling boy, unsure of what to do.

But he held on tight as he felt the a wetness on Ian’s cheek when he pulled him closer. Ian shook and gave a muffled sob but he refused to let go of Mickey and he also refused to look up. He just buried himself as far as he possibly could into the older boy, seeking shelter in his arms. It was almost as if he thought he could disappear if Mickey held him tight enough.

“I got you,” Mickey said, pressing his words into Ian’s red hair, “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Not going anywhere, you got that? I’m not going anywhere.”

Ian nodded but that didn’t stop his trembling, if anything his grip on Mickey just got tighter. Mickey didn’t actually mind, if he was what was keeping Ian upright then he would become a fucking statute to prop this kid up. Ian was the bravest person Mickey knew and if he needed someone to cry on then Mickey was fucking honored to fill that position. A part of him wondered why Ian hadn’t gone to any of his siblings, everyone knew the Gallagher clan was thick as thieves, but he wouldn't ask because every family had it’s own fucked up issues. If Ian needed him to be here, then Mickey would be here.

Eventually Ian stopped crying, but he didn’t let go of Mickey and he kept his head buried in Mickey’s shoulder.

“It’s alright,” Mickey was saying, soothing as he continued to run one of his hands through Ian’s hair, “It’s all right. It’s ok. I’ve got you. It’s gonna be ok.”

Ian didn’t say anything. He knew that usually when people said “It’s going to be alright” that they were lying. Countless social workers and drug dealers and con artists and parents had said that time and time again, and time and time again the statement was always disproven. But somehow when Mickey said it was going to be okay, Ian believed him. He had no real reason to, Mickey was no better off than Ian was, they both knew that life liked to flash hopes and dreams at them before snatching them away. But Ian believed what Mickey had to say, because Mickey didn’t lie. Not to Ian anyway.

And Ian’s heart clenched as he realized the immutable truth: he trusted Mickey. 

And, for whatever reason, it seemed like Mickey trusted him too.


	7. Unexpected

Mickey was playing some knock off smash-and-grab video game when Mandy came into the living room and threw herself down on the couch next to her brother. Her rainbow colored hair streaked out onto the couch and her too short skirt rode far too high for a protective brother’s liking. She was agitated underneath her “don’t give a fuck attitude” but Mickey didn’t ask why. There were a million things that could have gotten under her skin, ranging from the fact that their dad was back from jail or that her friend stole her hairbrush. It was only a matter of time before she spilled what was bothering her.

When she did speak it was not what Mickey was expecting.

“Ian got arrested.”

Mickey felt his hands stall and stop, and his game character got hit by some falling rubble, before reminding himself to play the goddamn game. “You’re joking,” he replied with a forced laugh, but his eyes kept darting over to look at Mandy to see if this was all just an elaborate joke. 

“I’m not,” Mandy protested, whacking her brother on the shoulder with an open palm, “He and Lip got picked up for boosting a car somewhere on the North Side.”

“No fucking way,” Mickey blurted out. There was no way that Ian Gallagher stole a car, he knew that stolen goods needed to be unloaded quickly and a South Side kid with a new car was dead giveaway that something was up, and Lip was smart enough not to get caught if decided to go the carjacking route. Mandy had to be lying. That was the only explanation.

“I heard it from Amy who heard it from her dad who works at the precinct,” Mandy huffed, annoyed that her words were being doubted and ignored...again. She stole Mickey’s controller from his near shaking hands and resumed game play just in time to save Mickey’s character from dying on the level. 

“Amy’s the one with the lazy eye, right?” Mickey asked, distracted as he ran one of his hands through his hair. There had to be some mistake. Ian wouldn’t do something so utterly reckless and utterly bone achingly stupid. What the fuck had Ian been thinking? This wasn’t like him at all. He was all military and golden boy status and army bound. 

Mandy just rolled her eyes and went about ignoring her brother since it was obvious he wasn’t taking this seriously. Meanwhile, Mickey insides were doing an wonderful impersonation of a pit of snakes slithering their way out of hell. He unconsciously rubbed his mark through his shirt, trying to connect the dots of what he’d just heard and coming up blank. The only thing that was obviously clear from all of this was that this was somehow Lip’s fault. Clearly, the older Gallagher boy had thought he was smart enough to boost cars without getting caught and got Ian involved. Next time he saw that smart ass he was decking him so hard he couldn’t articulate his hairbrained ideas. 

Mickey couldn’t settle down which led to him wandering around the neighborhood, unable to sleep, smoking cigarette after cigarette. His gloves were stained yellow from the filters and he looked a bit like an irate dragon with all the smoke coming out of his mouth. A dragon whose horde had been touched but wasn’t quite sure what was missing. Not yet anyway. 

He found himself sitting on a car across the street from the Gallagher house, acting like a fucking psychotic stalker as the hours shifted from late night to early morning. What was his problem? Why couldn’t he stay away? His mark itched, or at least Mickey thought it was itching, but maybe it was just his response to being so long without Gallagher. Maybe he was an addict after all. Maybe his mark was going to get him killed before he could go to prison. Mickey didn’t know.

What he did know was how he felt. And right now he wanted Gallagher. And that feeling of want was driving him to the point where he was about ready to admit that his want was actually a need. A deep, ever encompassing need that opened up his inner parts and echoed throughout the chamber of his self. 

So he sat outside the Gallagher house. And waited. 

By the time the Gallaghers showed up at the house, after the sun had crept up over the South Side like a hooker crept in to her sleeping pimp’s den, Mickey had made with the peace that he was slowly descending into madness. He refused to admit that he let out a sigh of relief when he saw Ian entering the house. That meant that Ian wasn’t going to go the Juvie, kid wouldn’t survive with his baby face and willingness to believe that people could be inherently good, and he would be all right.

With the knowledge that Ian wasn’t going to be trapped in a game of don’t drop the soap, Mickey made his way home, knowing he looked like a specter of druggie nightmares past. No one messed with him. No one ever tried to mess with him. Or, if they did, they quickly learned that it was a mistake to underestimate a Milkovich.

He crawled into his bed with little aplomb, barely shedding his coat and kicking off his shoes before collapsing face first into his pillow. He felt looser now, the tension running off of him as the knowledge that Ian was safe and not in lock up filling him up inside. Sleep came like a knock-out punch and Mickey willingly succumbed to the darkness.

When he woke up the last thing he expected was to feel a pleasant warmth radiating from his mark outward, a comforting weight on his shoulder or hear another person’s breathing. He also hadn’t expected his calm at the realization that he wasn’t alone in his room. Normally he would be on high alert, ready to strike down any threat that thought to catch Mickey unawares. But the person touching him wasn’t a threat. 

It was Ian.

The younger boy was sitting on Mickey’s bed, his right hand resting on Mickey’s upper back, his green eyes softly watching the older boy sleep. His freckles stood out more than they normally did against his pale skin, and there were dark circles under his green eyes. Mickey lay with his head turned toward the side, watching Ian watch him. For anyone else this would be extraordinarily creepy, but with Ian it seemed like the most normal thing in the world.

They existed in that old, comforting silence, Ian’s thumb rubbing back and forth on Mickey’s worn shirt, feeling the heat from the older boy’s back. Finally, something seem to shift in the air, and Mickey said, “Don’t be so stupid.”

Ian swallowed and gave a half-choked laugh. “Got it,” he said quietly, more focused on touching Mickey.

“Seriously, if you’re ever do anything that stupid again you won’t have to worry about the cops because I will kill you myself,” Mickey said, his tone was joking but there was an underlying bite to his words that conveyed that the light tone was a farce. He shifted so that he was sitting up in bed and Ian’s hand fell to his side.

“I got it Mick,” Ian replied, clearly worn from the past 24 hours. He looked so young and yet so worn Mickey wanted to pull him into his arms and hide him from the world. But he couldn’t. Not here. Here wasn’t safe.

Mickey was going to leave it at that. Let Ian have some dignity left. The kid knew he’d fucked up and had probably been chewed out three ways to Sunday by his clan. No need for Mickey to drag it out. Then Ian started talking.

“We went to see my dad. Me and Lip I mean,” Ian began, and Mickey just raised his eyebrows because what the fuck did Frank have to do with any of this. “Apparently he lives in the North Side. Some fancy fucking house you know, some fancy place that makes you feel like if you break something the cops would be on you the next minute. And it could be my house to, you know, because I’m not really Frank’s,” and Ian had Mickey’s full attention at that comment.

Ian’s eyes were flickering around the room as he continued to explain, “Monica apparently fucked Frank’s brother Clayton and got me for the trouble. We did some stupid DNA test cause Liam was going to be taken away and Lip hates Frank and.” Ian swallowed and continued, “I’m the odd one out. Even fucking Liam is Frank’s, but not me. I’m somebody elses. I didn’t want to be, you know. It just happened.” 

Then Ian was looking at Mickey with those imploring eyes, a vague apology in his words as he said, again, “I didn’t want to be.”

“So you’re not fucking Frank’s,” Mickey said matter of factly, his mind reviewing the facts before him, “Doesn’t really change much, does it?”

And Mickey held his breath because maybe Ian wanted it to change things. Maybe now that Ian knew he was supposed to belong to the North Side he’d leave. Just pack up and go and forget that Mickey with his strange mirrored mark ever existed. 

Ian just gave a little laugh, a bit of his strange doom and gloom attitude beginning to slide off of him, “No, I guess not.”

And then the ginger kid was laughing so hard he physically shook, and he was crying but Mickey wasn’t sure if it was from mirth or grief.

“It’s just so fucked up,” Ian gasped out loud, and suddenly Mickey was laughing too. Because when life was full of such messed up shit the only thing a person could really do was laugh to keep from crying. 

“Dork,” Mickey managed to taunt through a mouthful of laughter.

“Dick,” Ian replied rolling his eyes but he reached out and grabbed Mickey’s hand. 

And Mickey didn’t pull away.


	8. Growing

How the hell Mickey wound up working at the Kash-and-Grab was a mystery that had some semblance of shape and cohesion but was probably best left unexamined too closely. Like cafeteria meatloaf. Mickey just knew that Kash had run off, coward to the very last, and the store had been short staffed with an irate Jihad Jane ready to make heads roll. So Ian had suggested, in that innocent-but-not-innocent-way-at-all of his, that perhaps Mickey should be the new employee. He would at least keep people from stealing since people actually were frightened of him, unlike Kash, and it wasn’t like Ian could be everywhere at once. 

Ian had decided to spring the fact that he’d been hired for a job he’d never applied for in the middle of a blowjob. Which, really, was rather low and sneaky even for the South Side. Mickey hadn’t known whether to be annoyed, impressed, or touched, so he wound up feeling a weird combination of the three. Ian had even held off on finishing until Mickey had accepted the position. It really wasn’t fair that Ian could use in mouth in so many talented, devious ways.

So here he was, wearing a security vest in the middle of summer, the sun blazing outside turning the asphalt into a burning black sea, and watching Ian struggle through his geometry homework. Little red head fucker had managed to grow a couple of inches and his muscles were starting to fill out from ROTC, not that Mickey was complaining, it just gave him extra excuses to look at him. 

Mickey did have to admit it was a bit painful at times to see Ian struggle with figuring out how many triangles fit inside of a certain sized square, but he also felt a twinge of pride at Ian actively doing something to get out of this neighborhood. A lot of people liked to talk like they were getting out, act all big and that they were better than the block they grew up on, but none of them did jack shit to get out. Some just acted entitled to a better life because they’d been born in the butthole of society but Mickey knew that wasn’t how it worked. Life didn’t just hand anything over. You had to actively fight for it. Lip may be the smartest fucker in school but the way he was going he’d probably stay in the South Side and rot here, whereas Ian who worked hard and tried actually had a shot of making it out of here. Okay, so maybe it was more than a twinge of pride for the redhead, it was hard not to feel pride at seeing such hope paired with realistic hard work.

But when Ian wasn’t slaving away for the glory of being shot in some desert landscape and Mickey wasn’t threatening the wanna-be shoplifters with bodily harm, they were still just teenagers. And as such they had some rather interesting conversations.

“There is no way in hell Batman would win against Superman,” Mickey protested in outrage. 

“Whatever you wanna think to help yourself sleep at night,” Ian replied, that stupid small smirking smile on his freckled face.

“Superman’s a fucking alien. With laser vision. What the hell does Batman have?” Mickey asked, outrage and disbelief coloring his tone. His tattooed hands twitched, flicking the glossy pages of some magazine he wasn’t reading. 

“Uh, try years and years of advanced training, unlimited resources at his hands, and a cool secret identity,” Ian said like it was obvious. 

“If you wanted an old rich dude at least go for Iron Man,” Mickey protested, “at least he doesn’t whine on and on about his dead mommy and daddy.”

“Besides, it’s kind of a cheat for Superman to even call himself that because he isn’t even a man,” Ian pointed out.

Mickey’s eyebrows rose into his airline before he snapped back, “Well the only thing super about Batman is his money. Even his name is dorky. Who names themselves after a blind animal? An idiot rich boy is who.”

“At least Batman can get laid,” Ian fired back.

“Oh you did not just go there,” Mickey scoffed, his right hand raising to lightly touch his mouth briefly before lightly laughing. “When was the last time Batman had a girlfriend? Try never. Because they all keep dying because he’s so shit at his job villains keep going after his girls. And succeeding. Meanwhile Lois Lane is alive and well doing her job.”

“Admit it Gallagher,” Mickey continued with a smirk, “You just like a man in tight black leather.”

Ian looked up at Mickey through his fair lashes and replied coyly, “Maybe I just have a thing for dark haired men who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”

At that Mickey’s brain seemed to stall out and he knew he had some stupid gooey smile on his face as his tongue lay stupid in his mouth. Ian just grinned and went back to reading some required reading novel about boys at a prep school during WWII. He shouldn’t feel this warm, this pile of melted mush of happy feelings inside, but Mickey did and he let himself continue to feel it. 

Meanwhile, Ian grinned like he’d captured a small piece of the sun and he rubbed, for just the briefest of moments, his mark that seemed to lightly pulse in happiness.


	9. Deeper

The Gallagher house, in one brief moment of oddity, was quite. Frank was at the bar, Fiona was at work, Lip was in the ice cream van peddling cheap beer and little league odds, Debbie was with Mandy, Carl was out burning something to the ground and Liam was over at Shelia’s. In a moment that was part recklessness and part bravery and just part desperate need, Ian had invited Mickey over. And in a moment of weakness and want, the older boy had accepted.

But perhaps it wasn’t weakness at all. Perhaps it was a type of hidden strength, a type of strength unrecognized by the world at large and so the boys, sent adrift in a world full of potholes and rainy days, did not know what they were feeling, and seeing. It was vulnerability. But not the kind that made one feel like a soft shelled crab being dropped onto sharp rocks by a pernicious seagull. Rather, it was the type that felt like a raw nerve ending being soothed in a gentle breeze. Or like sinking into the darkest bits of the ocean, that sense of strange calm in the face of the unknown. 

Whatever it was, the boys found themselves wrapping that feeling around themselves more and more often. Mickey had accepted the fact that he just felt better being around Ian, and even though he attempted to establish personal boundaries and rules to prevent himself from getting too attached, those makeshift barriers fell away like sand castles during high tide. Ian had no such misgivings. Mickey struck a chord deep within him, like the perfect harmony to the melody that Ian didn’t realize he’d been singing, and there was no way in hell that he was going to let the man who matched his soul song walk away.

There was also the not so small matter of their marks. Ian’s now looked like someone had repeatedly inked his mark with an ink made out of pure midnight and airless nights. Mickey’s, who had been dark before, now looked like scorched flesh, like his mark dug deep and was etched into his bones. Neither of the boys could explain it, and it was one of those topics they generally stayed away from. They never tried to articulate all of the questions and thoughts they had about those strange swirls and curves, not in words anyway.

But they spoke about it in touch and long looks and feelings that did not have words. They knew there was something deep, something that lurked far beneath the facade of polite civilized society, that governed their inner beings. If they were to talk about what seemed to bind them together it would be to talk of elemental things. The tides shifting with the moon and tectonic plates melting into magma and stars dying but still being seen in the sky for thousands of years. They could not speak of it because they did not have the words. Perhaps there were no words.

Still, whether they spoke of it or not whatever this bond was, this desperate need to be with the other person, this give and take, existed and was acted upon. Every time they touched Mickey was sure that he had managed to capture an angel-- not those stupid cherub looking baby angels but those fearsome warriors with fire for wings and swords in their hands that were reflected in their pitiless eyes-- and drag him down to earth. Ian simply thought if there was such a thing as God, then perhaps he did not exist in the vast emptiness of anything, but rather in the impossible depth of what he felt, what he experienced, with Mickey. 

With the house empty, and doors locked more as an after thought than a pressing urge, the boys allowed themselves time to touch and taste and enjoy each other in ways that they couldn’t in a quick fuck in the back of the Kash and Grab. It also allowed them to let their guard down, to just be who they were, without worrying about who may be watching. 

In the slow afterglow of their third round Ian propped himself up against the wall, his pillow firmly keeping him from completely melting into a puddle over over-sexed goo, with Mickey nestled in between the growing redhead’s legs, his broad pale back pressed into the younger boy’s defined chest. Ian was quite content to be used as Mickey’s pillow, firmly wrapping his freckled arms around the older boy’s torso, his hands occasionally wandering to explore this masterpiece he was allowed to touch. 

Mickey was more focused on some old radio walkie-talkie that Lip had scavenged and hadn’t yet fixed then on Ian’s wandering hands. His own pale fingers fiddled with the various wires and tinkered around with the half rusted screws, getting a kick out of being a mechanical Frankenstein. Ian watched in fascination as Mickey connected one wire hear, twisted a screw here, and just fiddled where even Lip hadn’t yet touched. Almost absentmindedly one of Ian’s hands wandered higher and just gently caressed Mickey’s mark, nearly purring as he touched that mark that he felt was just as much his as it was Mickey’s. Mickey just grinned, allowing himself to enjoy the overwhelming _comfort_ and _here_ and _safe_ that always seemed to accompany Ian fondling his mark.

Ian rested his head into the crook of Mickey’s neck, occasionally nuzzeling or pressing a soft kiss to the older boy’s neck, allowing himself to take as many liberties as Mickey would allow him to and then some. When they were alone together, really alone and not listening for the machine gun fire footsteps of Linda or a drunk’s shuffling uncertain footsteps, Mickey dropped his guard so completely that at times Ian just wanted to lock the entire world out forever and ever. 

Of course that wouldn’t be possible, but in moments like this with Mickey naked in his bed, Ian allowed himself to indulge the fantasy.

“Dude cut it out, that fucking tickles,” Mickey laughed, shrugging his shoulder slightly, just enough to dislodge Ian’s current ministrations but not enough to throw the ginger boy off completely. 

Ian just grinned, his wicked streak coming to the surface, as he redoubled what had been a casual attack. Mickey let out a peal of high pitched laughter and squirmed in Ian’s arms, not really trying to get away. After a few moments Ian cut it out by blowing a raspberry onto Mickey’s shoulder and then settled his chin firmly on said shoulder.

“So you think you can make it work?” Ian asked, curious, as he tightened his hold on Mickey, bringing him closer to his chest. Mickey just sunk back into his previous comfortable position.

“Maybe. Joey had one sorta like this a couple a years back that I used to work on. It didn’t sound too good but it worked well enough. Think he ended up swapping it for an eight ball or something. Pretty good deal too considering the wires were fried and all the parts that used to make them are probably all rotting at the bottom of some landfill somewhere,” Mickey replied, his fingers moving over some of the wires slowly, as if he could figure out what their real purpose was if he tried hard enough.

“You ever think about being an electrician?” Ian asked softly, his thumb brushing over the edges of Mickey’s mark. “I bet you’d be good at it.”

Mickey shrugged, a tension seeping back into his shoulders as Ian invited the future into his room. It wasn’t that the future bothered Mickey, he knew what was in store for him, and it wasn’t anything shiny and bright like a legitimate career. Mickey knew that. Ian didn’t seem to quite grasp that concept yet. Ian’s future was on a vertical trek into the bright horizon of “get the fuck out of the South Side” and Mickey wasn’t going to get in the way of that. He really wasn’t. It just seemed that Ian hadn’t gotten the memo that Mickey wouldn’t be joining him in the upward mobile social track he’d picked out for himself. 

Instead of crushing the kid’s blind optimism and forcing the future in to ruin this rather pleasant afternoon they had carved out for themselves Mickey just replied, “It’s good money if you can get it.”

Ian gave a murmur of assent, pleased that Mickey was indulging the idea. But he wasn’t, he was just stating a fact. But talking about the future seemed to make Ian horny because one of his hands wandered down to grib Mickey’s dick and slowly stroke it. Mickey groaned and lay his head back on Ian’s shoulder, the radio nearly slipping from his now lax fingers to the floor.

“I bet you’d be managment,” Ian was murmuring into Mickey’s ear, rubbing his erection against the older boy’s pale ass, “You’re so good at math Mickey. You’re so fucking smart.” Mickey just groaned, one of his hands reaching up to grip Ian’s hair as that thick dick rutted against his buttcheeks. It didn’t take much maneuvering for Ian to slip under Mickey and shove his dick up the older boy’s ass. Mickey just groaned in pure satisfaction as he was filled.

“You’re so damn smart,” Ian kept saying even as he thrust upward in harsh, deliberate strokes, one hand holding onto Mickey’s dick and the other clutching his partner’s mark. “Fuck,” Ian said, his pace turning frantic, “I want you. I want you so fucking much.”

And Mickey was half out of his mind but he covered the hand that was clutching his mark and managed to get out, “Got me. You got me,” before he saw white as Ian found his special spot and hammered home. Mickey wasn’t even sure when or how he climaxed, it was just a bit of a blur of pleasure and Ian’s voice, desperate and possessive, filling his ears. Ian continued to thrust and Mickey tightened around him, determined to have Ian come too.

When it seemed like Ian would just keep going on, holding off on his orgasm until he killed over, Mickey leaned up and just whispered into the ginger’s ear, “Ian.” His breath was hot and he could feel Ian shudder, fighting not to come. “Ian,” Mickey breathed again, dragging the younger boy close enough to kiss but not yet. “Come on.” And just like that Ian was shuddering as he came and Mickey gave a triumphant grin as Ian’s arms tightened around his bed partner, refusing to let the older boy go. 

But it wasn’t to last, this small oasis of peace and solitude, and with great reluctance Mickey got dressed while Ian remained in the bed. He sat, knees up and spread, his arms loosely resting on his knees as his eyes drank in every detail of Mickey’s flesh before it was covered. The older boy’s blue tank top didn’t fully cover his mark, a hint of a curve could be seen, and Ian felt almost irrationally possessive. He wanted the world to see the mark, to gaze upon the flesh that shared the same mark as him, but at the same time he didn’t want anyone to look at it. They would sully it, try to destroy this bond, this strange connection that just seemed to become deeper and deeper with each breath Ian took.

Ian didn’t say anything, and his face was serious as Mickey finished putting on his shoes. The older boy seemed torn for a moment, as if unsure if he truly wanted to leave a naked Ian alone in a bed without him. But Mickey knew the risks of this, knew them far better than Ian did. And he supposed it was a small mercy that Ian didn’t quite know just how dangerous being with Mickey could be. Deadly in fact. 

Mickey walked up to Ian’s bed but didn’t say anything. Instead he just reached out one of his tattooed hands and cupped Ian’s jaw, his thumb gently petting Ian cheek. Ian leaned into the touch, like a plant starved for sunlight, his eyelids drifting closed for a brief moment before flickering open again to stare at his lover’s face. 

Mickey’s face was serious as well and he wasn’t sure what he was really doing. He just knew he didn’t want Ian to feel lonely, to feel like Mickey was walking away. Because he wasn’t. He wasn’t. So he leaned in close and pressed a gentle kiss, soft as a butterfly’s wings, to Ian’s lips briefly before he drew back, letting his hand slowly drop from Ian’s face.

Ian’s face seemed to shine with an inner light and Mickey could feel a blush threatening to surface so he gave a curt nod that passed for a goodbye before leaving. 

Ian just stayed where he was, a goofy grin creeping up on his face, as he thought of Mickey’s not-goodbye. He could get used to them.


	10. Summer

“Dude, what the fuck is up with your mark?” Lip asked one day as he saw Ian getting out of their pool.

Ian just shrugged and called out, “All right Debs, what’s the record we’re aiming for today?”

Debbie came running down the porch steps, her two piece swimsuit doing little to cover the massive mark that covered her entire back. Her mark was a faded brown color, almost like worn out henna, which wasn’t an uncommon color for marks. What was uncommon was how large the mark was. A tangled web of vines and branches with half formed blooms and little bees and winged insects hiding amongst the mess of vegetation the reached from each shoulder down to her hips. It was a thing of beauty, a masterpiece created on human flesh, but Debbie didn’t see it that way. 

She didn’t mind it for the most part, but having such a large and detailed mark just meant another thing was different about her. And the girls in her class could be so cruel. If Debbie didn’t wear shirts that showed her back then she was a prude, if she wore shirts that did show her back then she was just asking for any guy to touch her mark like a skank. She could not win. And it hurt because objectively she knew her mark was beautiful, it just seemed like nothing else about her was. 

“I need to get to at least 80 seconds,” Debbie called out, as she kicked off her flipflops and climbed into the pool.

“Ian,” Lip tried again, reaching out to grab his brother’s shoulder. Ian quickly shrugged him off, “Seriously, what is up with your mark?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Ian replied as he got his watch ready.

“Ian,” Debbie called, demanding her older brother’s attention.

“All right Debs,” Ian replied, turning away from Lip, “On your mark. Get ready. Set. Go.” 

Debbie submerged herself into the chlorine water, her fingers clamped tight over her nose as she struggled to remain below the surface. While she was struggling not to breath her eldest brother was struggling to get a straight answer out of Ian.

“Ian,” Lip demanded, his expression a mixture of crossness and concern.

“Drop it Lip,” Ian sighed in exasperation. What went on with his mark was his own business. Besides, it’s not like he could actually explain it in a way that made sense. “Marks change all the time.”

“Like hell they do,” Lip protested. His mark was simple small triangle on his chest that had stayed the same since the day he was born and would probably stay the same until the day the world finally got sick of him and killed him off. It was extremely rare that a mark changed, or did anything besides exist. Lip would know, he’d read up on all the science of it when Liam was born and they weren’t sure if Liam was black or just covered head to toe in a soul mark.

Debbie prevented any further discussion when she resurfaced, gasping for air as she clamored over to Ian. “What was my time?”

“64 seconds,” Ian announced with pride, stopping the timer on his watch and going back to ignoring Lip. 

“Only 64?” Debbie asked in both disbelief and disappointment. 

“Lip, come on man,” Kev hollered from the street in the ice cream van, his voice carrying loud and clear into the yard.

“This isn’t over,” Lip said, gesturing to Ian even as he walked away. The siblings could hear his voice as he hollered, “I’m coming, keep your shirt on.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ian muttered under his breath while he rolled his eyes, knowing that something else would come up and this conversation would never be revisited. Just like every other discussion in their lives. 

“I need to get up to 80,” Debbie said, drawing Ian’s attention back to the matter at hand. “Time me again?”

“Sure thing Debs,” Ian replied, resetting his watch as Debbie splashed a little bit of water on him with the playfulness of youth she rarely displayed. As she submerged herself again Ian was unpleasantly, and rather suddenly, reminded of a nightmare he’d had. He can’t really remember much of it, only that is was dark and hollow and everything was on fire but he couldn’t move or breath. And there had been that dark ominous feeling of something important being lost. He’d woken up, covered in sweat, his sheets soaked and his arms reaching for Mickey only to find dead air. It had been an unpleasant experience and so he turned his mind to other things such as if Mickey would want to sneak into a Soxs game later.

The answer to that question turned out to be a most definite yes. Mickey normally was a hockey fan but a man had to have a summer sport and thus baseball. Both he and Ian were Soxs fans because, man, fuck the Cubs. They didn’t keep up with the players, not really, just enough to shoot the shit with other fans or to start an argument in a sports bar so they got thrown out before they had to pay for their drinks. But it was fun to sit in the stands and heckle the opposing team’s players and make bets on who would actually hit a run in any given inning. 

Sometimes, in private moments he would never share with anyone, he’d look at Mickey and imagine taking his hand in his and holding it for all the world to see. He wouldn’t of course, Mickey would hit him on principle, and Ian didn’t want to have Mickey back off from the good thing they had going. Besides, sometimes, when they were on their own, and no one was around, and it was quiet and calm, Ian would reach for Mickey’s hand and hold on, and Mickey would let him. Sometimes he held back on to Ian's hand too.

It was after a game, one the Soxs had managed to win by some miracle, and he and Mickey were wandering down below the L, just a little bit tipsy from the cheap watered down beer at the stadium. The street lights were that dim aged yellow that slunk up to the train tracks before willingly allowing itself to be devoured by heat soaked shadows of the night. And he and Mickey were laughing and joking and forgetting the world, the whole shit world, for just a moment. 

Then Mickey was tugging Ian down a dark alleyway, deep enough that someone probably had been stabbed here at some point in the last week or so, out of anyone’s line of sight. The older boy was groping Ian like a man possessed, wanting to feel those developing muscles beneath his hands, feel the strength and power that resided there. Mickey had a wide open grin of satisfaction on his face and Ian couldn’t help himself, he dragged the brunette into a fierce kiss.

It was never said that a Milkovich didn’t rise to the occasion, and Mickey responded as fiercely as he did to anything. The kiss was more than just a meeting of mouths, but rather playful aggression tied up with possession and an underlying hint of uncertainty. Ian grinned into Mickey’s mouth as the older boy moved to undo Ian’s jeans and allow his aching cock some air.

Then Mickey pulled back from Ian, gave a shit eating grin to the slightly dazzed redhead, and hit his knees. He played with Ian’s dick for a few moments, admired how hard and long and thick it was, how it radiated heat. It made his mouth salivate and he was nearly gagging with how much he wanted to taste this dick. Always one for the instant gratification -- because why wait for the opportunity to walk away?-- Mickey swallowed Ian’s dick down as far as he could, pleased with the noise that escaped the redhead’s mouth.

Ian was almost ashamed to admit how quickly he came under Mickey’s ministrations but damn, did that man know how to suck cock. The dark haired boy rose, wiping the edges of his mouth as he grinned, taking in the sated expression on Ian’s face. Ian reached out for Mickey, drawing him close, always wanting to be close, and unbuckled Mickey’s pants. He tugged on the slightly shorter boy’s penis with a devotion normally reserved for higher powers and sucked on Mickey’s neck, determined to bruise him. To mark him. 

Mickey let Ian do what he wanted, groaning in pleasure as the redhead seemed to envelope him in sensation. He could vaguely feel his mark reacting whenever Ian brushed against it, it was like a jolt of ecstasy, and he lay his forehead against Ian’s shoulder unable to fully handle everything he was feeling. He couldn’t even breath normally, but in little pants as Ian sucked a dark bruise into the skin of his neck.

He didn’t care that he was being bruised. Didn’t care that it was starting to hurt. He couldn’t even function enough to speak, he just allowed himself to come fully into Ian’s possession. Because by being possessed he was also doing the possessing. Ian wanted him, wanted this dirty poor boy from the South Side, wanted him so completely that he lost sight of anything but Mickey, and it made Mickey feel like a god. 

When he came, his cum staining the ground, he just sort of slumped into Ian as he took a moment to recover. Ian latched his arms around Mickey, pulling his head back slightly to admire the bruise that was sure to darken in the next couple of hours, before pulling Mickey closer. Mickey allowed himself the moment, just a brief second in time really, when he breathed in Ian’s scent and felt the younger boy’s muscles and could taste his sweat if he stuck his tongue out. Just a second really.

But it was a second that could have lasted for eternity.


	11. Sweets

“What the fuck happened to you?” Mickey asked as he stopped full on in front of the open bathroom door. The door was warped, it's paint peeling and cracked, and it hung on its hinges with a sort of gritty determination that seemed to seeth out of most of the fixtures in the Milkovich household. Mandy was topless, half-hunched over the stained sink, with blood dripping down her back. She was putting her hair in a hasty sloppy braid when she glanced over at her brother for a moment before returning to finding a ratty hair band on the messy sink.

“Some bitch at school said I slept with her man. As if I would touch his pimply ass, but she wanted a fight so I gave her one,” Mandy replied, the anger long since drained out of her. Her braid complete she turned to Mickey with a bottle of vodka and said, “Do the honors?”

Mickey shrugged and took the bottle from her along with a decently clean rag as she bared her pale wounded back to him. Long scratch marks, clearly from sharpened nails, were bright red and angry looking. Some of them leaked blood, creating trickle marks down Mandy’s back, mixing with her mark. 

Mandy’s mark wasn’t graceful or considered beautiful, at least not by most of the people who knew about it, but it was powerful and it was fierce. Three large gouges of black scratched from the middle of the left side of her back, ripped up and over her shoulder to the middle of her left breast, like some large animal had taken a swipe at her and she had walked away with the scars to prove it. It was nearly as dark as Mickey’s, but she was much more comfortable with her brother touching her mark then most people would be. It was, she always explained, because Mickey was family.

Mickey began to dab at Mandy’s back with a vodka soaked rag only for her to jerk away and swear.

“That hurt jackass,” she hissed, breathing heavily and blinking back tears.

“I know if fucking hurts, it means it’s working,” Mickey replied, waiting for Mandy to get back into place.

“Hey, the door was open so I,” Ian’s voice stopped and the red haired boy, holding a plastic grocery store bag, stared at the scene before him. His expression didn’t really give much away but his eyes betrayed his concern that the insistent “What the fuck happened?” he said didn’t quite get across.

“You trying to stare at my sister’s tits?” came Mickey’s response with a raised eyebrow.

“Fight,” was Mandy’s one word response that got buried under Mickey’s longer reply.

Ian just rolled his eyes and said, “I bought popsicles.” Holding up his bag before moving into the kitchen to shove them into the empty freezer. 

When Ian came back to the bathroom Mandy was cursing up a storm and Mickey was getting frustrated at Mandy’s attempts to dodge the vodka soaked cloth that her brother was attempting to dab against her wounds.

“What the fuck?” Mandy howled again, her back arched away from Mickey, much like a cat’s would.

“Would you stop fucking moving?” Mickey grossed, his ministrations getting rougher the more Mandy tried to escape the disinfecting she had asked for.

Ian rolled his eyes and finally stepped in and took the bottle and rag from Mickey saying, “Let me.”

“Whatever man,” Mickey replied, relinquishing his position beside Mandy and went to sit on top of the toilet, lighting up a cigarette while he watched Ian gently dab at Mandy’s wounds. They weren’t even that bad but you would think Mandy had been mauled by a wild animal the way she was caterwauling.

Ian had a grin that was threatening to erupt as he made quick work of Mandy’s back and applied the necessary bandages. “Now young missy,” Ian said, his voice a parody of an old man's, “You best be staying out of those here fights. You hear me?” 

Mickey snorted and Mandy rolled her eyes but also gave Ian a grateful smile as she put her shirt back on.

“Jerk,” Mandy said, knocking her shoulder against Ian’s in a friendly way. After a beat she continued, “So what is this I hear about popsicles.”

There was a moment of stillness in the cramped bathroom and then all of three of them were sprinting to get to the fridge. They all lunged for the door, shoulders scrapping into splintered wood, and they all kept tackling or tripping each other on their way there so it took about three times as long to get there. Mickey had Ian in a headlock on the floor and Ian had managed to grab one of Mandy’s ankles to drive her to her knees. 

It was a mess of limbs before Mandy scratched at Ian’s hand and managed to release herself to the sounds of Ian cursing her and her harpy talons. Mickey secured Ian into a better headlock as Mandy opened the freezer and crowed in delight.

“You better not fucking touch the red ones,” Mickey yelled as Ian attempted to wiggle out from under the dark haired boy. 

“Eat shit,” Mandy called back as she grabbed two popsicles, “Blue is better anyway.”

“Can’t breath,” Ian gasped but was ignored by both of the Milkovich siblings.

Mandy went over to the kitchen counter and managed to find enough clear space for her to sit. Her teeth gleamed right before she bit into one of the popsicles, a victory grin on her face. “Mmm, tasty.”

“Fucking,” Mickey began to mutter and then kicked Ian in the shin before launching at the fridge and grabbing a red popsicle. He practically deep throated it in an effort to suck down the sweet artificial juices.

“Shit Mick,” Ian groaned on the floor, rubbing his leg before getting up and limping over to the freezer to grab a root beer flavored popsicle. “You didn’t have to be a dick about it.”

“Bite me,” Mickey replied around a mouthful of red ice. 

Ian just rolled his eyes. But as he took a long lick of his slowly melting pop he caught Mickey’s eye, and grinned.


End file.
